


Open Locket

by Kevin_Mask (Nikolai_Knight)



Category: Kinnikuman Nisei | Ultimate Muscle
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, One Shot, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 18:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19381876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikolai_Knight/pseuds/Kevin_Mask
Summary: Mantaro was different.He was determined, hard-working, and dependable. It was strange to see him so changed, but stranger still to see the strange marks on his skin or the locket that he wore at all times. Ikemen knew something was amiss. He would do all that he could to help Mantaro, bring him back to his usual self, but Mantaro seemed to refuse all help . . .





	Open Locket

“Oh my,” said Ikemen. “Is that Mantaro?”

Ikemen stood at the far corner of the stadium. The stands were mostly empty, save for a few spectators related in some way to the wrestlers, and they towered above him with an impressive stature, leaving him in a cool shadow. A heavy scent of sweat lingered, along with a hint of blood from inevitable injuries. The grunts from within the ring mingled with gossip from without, while a few wrestlers congregated at the corners for a better view.

Meat stood just beside Ikemen, with a towel around his neck. He gripped at the ends with a tight grasp, while his eyes – sparkling behind the thick rims of his glasses – focussed on the two people within the ring, who fought with gusto and strength and talent. The smile he wore was one of sheer pride, which deepened a few lines about his face. Ikemen blushed. He clutched his clipboard harder to his chest, while he tried to avoid glancing too long into the ring, where bulging muscles glistened with sweat. Mantaro looked professional.

“Yeah, Junior’s been on the ball lately,” chirped Meat.

Ikemen swallowed hard. Mantaro wore the latest design of his outfit, while the tuft of brown hair was longer and shaggier than previous months, and his eyes – usually so soft and expression – were focussed and intense. He listened when friends offered advice. He was prepared to let others tag in for team matches. The muscles he bore were more reminiscent of Kinnikuman at his peak, as if he were training in his spare time, and Ikemen barely recognised him as the boy he once knew compared to the man he had become. He asked:

“What brought on this change of behaviour?”

“Not a clue.” Meat shrugged. “He snuck out one afternoon during training, but didn’t come back until pretty late . . . I figured he was on a date with some girl, especially when he didn’t want to talk about it, as you know how embarrassed he gets! Still, I think now he must have lost a fight, as he’s been _so_ determined to get stronger and better.”

“I shall admit that I didn’t expect for him to be here. He’s been late so consistently to training that I’ve just come to expect it, but he’s fighting in a rather impressive manner. I imagine if he keeps this up, that he could even defeat Kevin in a rematch.”

“That’s the plan, Ikemen. We’re going to claw back that belt!”

A sharp yell echoed out from the mat. Mantaro rolled under the ropes, where he fell to the ground, but – despite his uncertain injury – another wrestler lay prone and unconscious in the ring, where Kid raised his hand high and declared a tie between the two men. Ikemen raked his eyes over Mantaro, who clutched his shoulder. The fabric of his uniform was ripped. A few keloid scars marred the skin in a parallel fashion, while a chaotic web of scars marred his back, as if some were intentional and some were unwanted. Ikemen murmured:

“What are those scars, though?”

Meat hummed, before he scratched at his neck. He cocked his head to the side, while Mantaro pushed away his friends and let loose fake laughter, and – refusing first-aid – darted towards the corridor that led to the dressing rooms. Kid called out to everyone not to be distracted, before he organised a second match between two of the wrestlers. Meat sighed. He dropped his head to stare at the floor, where he kicked at the polished tiles.

“I wish I could say,” said Meat.

“You don’t know?”

“I found a couple of wounds on him that week.” Meat winced. “He’s been hiding his body as much as possible, but occasionally I spot a few new cuts poking out from under his sleeve, and he’ll make some excuse . . . I’m keeping an eye on it, but accidents happen.”

Ikemen opened his mouth to agree. Jade tumbled from the ropes, where he caught his head on the corner-post and blood trickled from the wound, and soon stood to continue his sparring match with taunts to his opponents. It was true: accidents happened. Still, rarely did scars run one after another in a strict succession of lines, and rarely did a wrestler feel shame in their wounds, especially ones received in the heat of battle. Ikemen tapped the sides of his clipboard, as he furrowed his brow and stared ahead. The match continued.   

* * *

A loud creak drifted through the hallway.

Ikemen paused with pen pressed to paper, until a dark spot of ink marred the page. The windows were black and reflected only back the furniture within the office, while the occasional car outside zoomed through the parking lot with little obstacles, and – from the instructors’ lounge – several of the men laughed and exchanged anecdotes. It was a series of out-of-hours background noises, but they did little to hide the grunts and groans.

He gently pressed his pen flat against the contracts. A low sigh escaped his lips, as he pushed back his chair with a loud scrape of wood on tile, and slowly he stood with hands pressed to the leather of the tabletop, while he looked directly through his open door. The hallway was cast in a low light, with only the odd shadows of auxiliary staff and instructors moving from their offices to their homes. Not one commented on the grunts. They drifted up from the rings down in the stadium itself, where all the _chojin_ should have long been gone.

He walked along the corridor with a yawn, while he wiped the sleep from his eyes and cricked his neck with a low murmur. It was far from unusual for the occasional wrestler to want to train past hours . . . Kevin was notorious for working past his limits, while Kid and Mars would often spar with Jade . . . Ikemen stopped at the balcony of the upper floor, where he could see all the rings below and narrowed his eyes as he strained to see better.

_It was Mantaro._

He was flat against a bench, with his hands grasping a heavy barbell. It was hard to make out the muttered count from masked lips, but it was something in the hundreds, and a heavy sweat dripped over every limb and stuck fabric to flesh. A locket on his chest shone in the low light, while occasionally catching and sliding down against his neck. Ikemen shook his head and furrowed his brow. It couldn’t possibly be Mantaro, could it? The same lazy and loudmouth boy that refused to put in a day of work, always finding an excuse to slack off.

Ikemen opened his mouth to shout a question. He closed it. Mantaro was so focussed on his training, and so lost in the momentary distraction, that it was almost cruel to break through the silence and make him self-conscious in the process. Ikemen bit into his lip, until he tasted a hint of iron. He turned his back on Mantaro. For a split second, he turned back with his hand poised in the air and another question on his lips, but soon thought better.

Mantaro clearly wished to be alone . . .

* * *

“Ouch,” cried Ikemen.

The spring of the chest-expander snapped. It struck him across the upper arm, before it twanged against the armour on his pectoral muscles, and finally fell limply over its brethren, as Ikemen dropped the equipment to the ground. A sharp sting shot through his nerves. He slapped his hand against the wound, but the heat against his palm betrayed a few specks of blood and he swayed where he stood. Ikemen closed his eyes and stepped back. He pressed his back to the gym wall, where he counted in his head and breathed deep. A voice called:

“Hey, you alright?”

He opened his eyes. Mantaro leaned against the doorframe, where he focussed his gaze on Ikemen’s upper arm, and Ikemen – with a trembling smile – slowly lifted his hand to show the injury with the hope of reassuring him . . . _he saw the blood._ A burst of nausea flooded his retching mouth with acidic bile, while his head swam and lightened and ached, and slowly Ikemen slid to the ground with face deathly white and smile long gone.

A low curse escaped Mantaro in his native tongue, before a series of clattered sounds revealed the search for a first-aid kit, and – sliding over the tiles – Mantaro slid next to him, with the first-aid kit clasped tightly in his hand . . . _‘hey, that’s only a shallow wound, dude! You scared of blood?’ . . ._ the kit popped open with a loud click. Mantaro made quick work of disinfecting the cut and bandaging it out of sight, enough that even an experienced doctor could not have done a better job, and – once done – he sat beside Ikemen with a smile.

It took several minutes for the colour to return to Ikemen’s cheeks. He dropped a hand onto Mantaro’s leg, where he squeezed in silent gratitude, and took in a deep breath, which helped to clear his head and ground his body. Mantaro placed his hands behind his head, as he leaned back and hummed some old tune that sounded familiar . . . something from an advert for a beef restaurant, Ikemen would guess. He kept his hand on Mantaro’s thigh.

“I – ah – didn’t realise you worked out,” said Mantaro.

“Well, one doesn’t keep one’s figure without some exercise.” Ikemen smiled. “I try to work out wherever I can, but I know my power level can’t compete with – well – those like yourself, so I prefer to keep my workouts once everyone has left for the night. I didn’t think I’d see you here, truth be told. Shouldn’t you be out scoring with some pretty ladies?”

“I’m . . . not really in the mood for dating or partying. It’s like . . . it’s like . . . I don’t know, but sometimes you just need time to think, right? Only, everyone thinks I can’t think and don’t care about anything serious, but I used to study really hard at school!”

“So you’re looking for something a little deeper?”

“I guess.” Mantaro shrugged. “I was always a pretty bad student. It was an accomplishment just to go from zero percent to twenty-five percent, but I can’t be a wrestler forever and one day I’ll need to be king, but . . . I just . . . I don’t _want_ to be a wrestler, if I’m honest, but what can I be instead? I’m too stupid to be a king, too. I just feel like . . . like I’m not _anything_.”

Ikemen held tighter. The tension in his shoulders brought them high, while his jaw clenched until his teeth ached, and an uncomfortable nostalgia ran through him . . . _nothing like Jacqueline, not as successful as Father, never as perfect as the memory of Mother . . ._ Ikemen forced a smile and turned his head. Mantaro stared absently ahead, with his eyes focussed on some unfixed point. He was old beyond his time. It would not be long before the clock in the hallway struck out the early hours with its incessant chimes, and so Ikemen asked:

“So why are you exercising so much?”

“It distracts me, I guess.” Mantaro frowned. “I saw a few of the trainers out of hours, and they all said how proud they were of me and how great I’m doing, but . . . it’s not enough, is it? Robin said – Robin said that he’d help me to train, but I don’t want that, but then everyone asks me why, but I don’t want to talk about it, but then they say I’m being stupid, but –”

“But you’re not being stupid,” sighed Ikemen. “You have your reasons, and you’re a grown man now, so you deserve for people to respect your choices. If you don’t want to be a wrestler, that’s a blow for the wrestling world, but you have to do what makes you happy.”

“Yeah, I always wanted to be a scientist or lawyer, to be honest.”

“It’s hard to imagine, but you have the determination.”

Mantaro grunted. The hands behind his head fell away, where one dropped onto Ikemen’s and entwined their fingers, and it gripped with a surprising strength, as if it sought to cling onto the only thing that provided any sense of stability, but his other hand slid along his chest to the locket that was barely visible beneath his uniform. It was a distinct shape, with the pattern of three lions a top of one another, and his fingers toyed with the outline.

The cuts on his arm poked out beneath his sleeves, even despite the recent customisation and lengthening of the material, and they ran in a grid-like pattern, each one shallow and yet violently red. They weren’t formed in the ring. They weren’t the result of a medical procedure. Ikemen reached out to brush back the sleeve, but Mantaro flinched . . . _he flinched_. Ikemen opened his mouth to speak, but Mantaro stood and towered over him. The expression he wore spoke of sadness and betrayal, with a shimmer to his eyes, and Ikemen whispered:

“How did you get those cuts, Mantaro?”

Mantaro shrugged and walked over to the treadmill. He dragged his feet, while leaving the first-aid kit beside Ikemen without a thought, and only the great grinding of gears and the whirring of the belts could be heard as he ran at a marathon pace. Ikemen climbed upright, as he joined Mantaro at the adjacent machine. He forced a smile and struggled to keep pace. A sticky sweat broke over him, as he stole occasional glances to the wounds, but once more Mantaro locked eyes with him. His lips trembled. He shrugged.  

“It doesn’t matter,” muttered Mantaro.

* * *

It was cold. The wind picked up and caught his hair, while he shuffled from foot to foot. A few cars drove by in the distance, while the occasional stragglers sauntered by the front of the stadium with giggles and gossip, and life continued even as he stood alone, eyes darting about in search of a familiar face. He brought his hands to his mouth and breathed warm air onto them, as he thought to Mantaro . . . _always with hand-warmers in his pockets, always with a smile on his face . . ._ someone appeared in the distance . . . a silhouette.

His heart skipped a beat. A smile broke across his features, bringing soft lines to his eyes, and his lips let loose a long exhale, as his hand came to rest over his heart. Ikemen rapidly blinked, until the figure came closer . . . a helmet in place of a mask, armour in place of a suit . . . a terrible sinking sensation struck at his chest. He pursed and nipped at his lips, as he lowered his head and dropped his hand to his side. Kevin raised a hand in a brief ‘hello’. He walked down the pedestrianised street towards him, while the moonlight caught from his armour.

“It’s rather unusual to see the chairman outside,” said Kevin.

Ikemen uttered a high-pitched laugh, as he scratched at the back of his neck. He continued to shuffle and fidget, even as he peeked over broad shoulders in hopes of seeing another shadow, but the Tokyo skyline was his only companion. Kevin sipped at a drink, with the straw poking through underneath his mask, and carried a gym-bag in his free hand, while turning his head from side to side in search of someone or something. Ikemen recalled a vague conversation about Warsman and smiled. He was not the only person waiting for a friend.

“I was – er – waiting for Mantaro,” said Ikemen.

“Oh, is that bloody buffoon late again?” The eye roll was practically audible. “Mantaro promised that he’d meet me for a late-night training session. I thought maybe he’d snapped out of his shoddy time-keeping skills, but I guess he’s as lazy as ever.”

“Well, that’s hardly fair. Mantaro has been trying so hard lately.”

“I know, I know,” sighed Kevin. “I’m pleased for the chap, honestly. I never thought he’d take training so seriously, but here we are and here I am. Still, it’s bloody annoying when I’m here in my own time to help him out, but he hasn’t even turned up and can’t even leave a pissing note to say bleeding why . . . I thought he’d made progress in group, too.”

“In group?” Ikemen asked. “What group is this?”

“Hmm? Oh. Forget I said anything. It’s just a support group for . . . well . . . for people like _us_ , I suppose. Not that it matters, as Mantaro never showed up after that first session, but he was actually able to _say_ it aloud and he seemed to take my advice to heart. I was proud.”

Ikemen furrowed his brow. The idea of a support group was far from an alien concept, as Jacqueline had once recommended him one for what nearly became a gambling problem, but he only knew them in regards to addictions or traumas, and Mantaro seemed so happy . . . _had_ seemed so happy . . . now his smiles only hid the barely suppressed tears. He slid his hand to his upper arm, barely covered by his coat, and thought back to those red lines and how they marred otherwise perfect skin. Kevin sighed and dropped his head.

“I told him to train more,” said Kevin.

There was a loud slurp as Kevin finished his drink, before he crushed the plastic in his hand and tossed it into the bin at some distance, and finally hefted his bag over his shoulder, as he waved to someone behind Ikemen. Ikemen spun around with a smile. He clapped his hands together. The words on his lips soon died away as Warsman appeared, only to leave Ikemen once more hunched and small despite his larger stature. Kevin smacked a hand on his shoulder and squeezed with a grunt, before he muttered out:

“I don’t like to talk about it outside of group, and I can hardly out Mantaro without his consent, but I just told him that training worked for me. It gave me an out and a distraction, while the Olympics finally gave me a goal. It helped me cope with what happened.”

“And that helped him? It would explain why he trains so much.”

“Well, I _thought_ it’d helped, but now I’m not sure.”

Kevin nodded towards Warsman, who politely kept some distance. He took a couple of steps towards him, while his hand slid slowly from Ikemen and came to rest on his hip, and – before he dashed towards his friend and trainer – he looked over his shoulder. He shrugged. A loud hoot of a car horn echoed in the distance, while the stadium darkened as clouds passed over the moon, and Kevin slowly walked back towards the stadium. He called back:

“If you see him, tell him he owes me twenty laps.”

Ikemen was left alone once more.

* * *

“That’s such a cute locket, Mantaro!”

Jacqueline draped her arms over muscular shoulders. A blush threatened to break its way through Mantaro’s mask, as he turned his head just slightly to the side, and Jacqueline’s lips – plump and red – threatened to pass against his hairline. The swell of his bosom was squished against his back, while Rinko sat opposite with a barely stifled giggle. It was awkward. Rinko barely knew where to look, as she sipped at her coffee with a warm smile.

Ikemen gripped hard at his cloth napkin, which he wrung in his hands until his knuckles turned white, and glared hard at Jacqueline, as her red locks of hair fell forward and danced about the prominent pectoral muscles of Mantaro. The café was alive with sounds and aromas, as people darted to and fro with whispered comments and loud gossip, and across the way a few students sat hunched over some complex homework, but Mantaro said nothing. He took the flirtations and jests in stride, but still he was uncharacteristically silent.

The scent of coffee drifted before Ikemen. Each burst of steam created strange shapes in the air, and obscured his vision of Mantaro, until he used the back of his hand to push the mug to the side. Rinko sat beside him, while she leaned on the table with her head on both hands. At any other time, he may have admired her beauty and passionate personality, but he could not take his eyes away from the manicured hands stroking at Mantaro’s skin. Rinko asked:

“Is there a story behind the locket?”

Mantaro took it gently from Jacqueline’s fingers, as she tried to awkwardly open it with one hand, and her other – with gentle touches – toyed with his hair, as if they weren’t in a public place as a group of friends enjoying a day off from work. He dropped it underneath his t-shirt, while pressing his palm against it so that Jacqueline couldn’t pry it away. Ikemen coughed. It brought a huff from her lips, as she dropped into the wooden chair beside Mantaro and sipped at her latte with occasional frowns towards Ikemen. Mantaro cricked his neck.  

“I got given it as a gift,” mumbled Mantaro.

“So there’s a photograph inside?”

“It’s – ah – just something to remind me of what’s important.” Mantaro forced a smile. “I figured I’d put something inside to inspire me, like the most important thing in the whole world, and that way . . . whenever I decided to slack off again . . . I can look inside and see what I stand to lose. It’s soppy, isn’t it? You guys can make fun of me, if you want.”

“We wouldn’t make fun of you,” promised Ikemen.

“I guess I just didn’t know how hard it’d be to think of what to put in there, you know? I thought about a lock of hair, or a photograph, or an old keepsake, and then I realised . . . I put all my hopes and dreams in there, so that I never forget what really matters.”

Rinko smiled. A few cookies sat in the centre of the table, still warm from the ovens just beyond the counter, and – reaching for a piece – she locked eyes with Mantaro, as the warmth from her smile met her eyes and filled them with light. Rinko picked at the cookie, while Jacqueline hummed an old lullaby and leaned against Mantaro. He draped an arm over her side. Ikemen let out a hiss of breath, as he held tight onto his mug. Rinko teased:

“So it’s a girl, huh?”

Mantaro shrugged and lowered his head. A blush overtook Ikemen . . . _it needn’t be a girl, not necessarily . . ._ he shook his head and screwed closed his eyes, before he sipped from his cup for a distraction, but he could not forget the cuts he saw just the other night. They would still be there, hopefully healing, but what if there were more? Jacqueline pressed a kiss to Mantaro’s cheek, while Mantaro groaned and buried his face into his hands.

“It’s totally a girl,” laughed Rinko.

* * *

The stars above were beautiful.

Ikemen lay on the grass, as he clasped his hands over his stomach. The grass was still damp to the touch, with a rich scent that came from being freshly mown, and the park was otherwise empty, as he admired the cherry blossoms in full bloom. A sweet array of petals slowly trickled down in the breeze, while Mantaro sat cross-legged beside him. The frown on his features was unusual. He hunched forward and picked at stray blades.

A few other people sat at some distance . . . _a family picnicked, a couple whispered sweet nothings, an elderly man drank his_ sake . . . Ikemen smiled and cast his eyes slowly over Mantaro, whose eyes caught a faint sparkle from the stars. The shirt Mantaro wore was thick for the evening chill, which long sleeves rolled up to the elbows, but – around those elbows – a few new lines could be seen just peeking out from beneath the fabric. Ikemen gnawed his lip and furrowed his brow, as he reached out and held the crook of Mantaro’s arm.

“You usually love to star-gaze,” said Ikemen.

Mantaro shrugged and picked at the grass. He kept his gaze low, staring at a now brown spot on the ground that lost any appeal, and he showed no sign of acknowledgement to the small touch, even though he flinched when a thumb trailed a little too close to the cuts. Ikemen pulled his hand away, while he sighed and stared back to the shimmering constellations. A few were vaguely familiar to him, taught once by Mantaro during the Ultimate Tag Tournament, but the rest were unusual and alien and only seen here on Earth.

“Mantaro, I’m worried about you.”

_Silence._

“I – ah – noticed you . . . have some cuts.” Ikemen winced. “I don’t know what it means to self-harm, and I can only imagine the level of pain you’re going through, but – if you would humour me – I would like for you to attend a physical with our physician.”

Mantaro reached instinctively for his locket. He held it tight in his hands, until Ikemen was sure that a bead of red blood rolled on the underside of his palm, and Mantaro screwed shut his eyes until sharp lines appeared. Ikemen waited. He slowly sat upright and placed a hand on a muscular shoulder, while he slid closer and closer until legs touched. They remained sat together in silence for a long while, as the scent of _yakitori_ drifted from a nearby vendor, and people cheered and laughed as the fireworks started. Mantaro shook his head: _‘no’_ .

* * *

“Enter,” called Ikemen.

The office door creaked open. Gazelleman kept his hands poised on the polished wood, as he leaned his head into the room and looked about in a cover manner, and – with a low hum – stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind him. He was dressed in casual attire, with a fashionable hat pulled low about his head. It cast a shadow about his face. Ikemen subtly checked his watch, where the time betrayed that Gazelleman ought to be in training.

“Might I talk to you, Muscle?” Gazelleman asked.

Ikemen gestured to a large leather chair opposite the desk, with his pen perched between two of his fingers and a forced smile on his lips. Gazelleman quickly took the seat. He sat cross-legged and cross-armed, with back straight and head held high, and the elegance and grace betrayed a man that spent a lifetime focussed on fashion and appearances. The noises from the training session below echoed upward, where the grunts and growls and groans merged into a cacophony within the background of the office. Ikemen cleared his throat.

“What has brought you here today, Gazelle?”

“It’s actually about Mantaro,” said Gazelleman.

A weight descended on Ikemen’s stomach. It sent a burst of acid through his chest, until it burned the back of his throat and cloyed at the back of his mouth, and Ikemen coughed and spluttered to clear his airways, as he pounded at his sternum. He blinked back the tears in his eyes, as he forced a deep breath and regained his composure. The smile on his lips was strained, only to fall as Gazelleman refused to return the gesture, and his shoulders soon sank.

“I doubt it’s good news,” observed Ikemen.

“I would hardly call it _good_ , no.” Gazelleman sighed. “I think that some of Mantaro’s wounds might be self-inflicted. I wasn’t sure who else to tell, because Mantaro would never forgive me if I worried his parents over nothing, and surely Meat already knows? You’re the chairman and oversee practically everything we do, so if anyone can help the kid -?”

“I asked that he attend a physical and he refused to –”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Look, we _all_ have issues, Muscle. I know I have a thing with my weight, and Kevin is the walking embodiment of post-traumatic stress, and you clearly have self-esteem issues yourself . . . it gets normalised in your head, and you think ‘I can deal with this’, and you get scared of other people taking -!” He winced. “I don’t know . . .

“If it’s true and it’s his only coping mechanism, he’s probably terrified of it being taken away from him, because he won’t know there are other ways to cope. It’s also easier to live with the sadness at a certain point, isn’t it? It’s better than the pain and indifference and emptiness, like it’s better to feel something than nothing, but whatever Mantaro feels . . . he hides it pretty well, doesn’t he? He’s the joker. He’s the clown. Always a smile. . .”

Gazelleman threw himself back into the chair. The façade fell, as his brown eyes glistened with a shine of unshed tears and the pupils distorted with the salty water. There was a tremble to his hands, as he tented them before his face, and his body language changed from something graceful into something broken. The long limbs hung like a broken doll, as his legs parted and his arms fell listless onto his lap. Ikemen screwed shut his eyes in response, while the ticking of his watch echoed far louder than it had any right, and he asked:

“How can you be sure they’re self-inflicted?”

A shrug was the only initial response. Gazelleman stood and paced, while Ikemen lowered both his hands into his lap and clenched them tightly together. He held so tight that his knuckles turned white, while crescent-shaped cuts dug into his skin, and his breath was slow and controlled, as he forced himself to count with each inhale and exhale. Gazelleman soon stopped with his fingertips pressed to the wood of the desk. He glared at Ikemen.

“He’s changing his uniform,” said Gazelleman. “Did you notice? He always wore short sleeves, and then mid-length sleeves, and now long sleeves . . . I pointed out yesterday that I saw cuts on his wrists, so today he’s wearing wrist-bands! Did you know you can get addicted to self-harm? What if it’s not enough for him, too? What if he . . .”

“Let’s not think that way.” Ikemen sighed. “I’ll have a meeting with Meat to discuss matters, as well as contact Mantaro to see if he’ll talk to me as a friend, and – if all else fails – we’ll have to alert his father and force him to speak to a therapist. It’ll be dealt with.”

“I don’t want to lose a friend, Muscle.”

“Neither do I, Gazelleman,” said Ikemen. “Neither do I.”

* * *

Ikemen knocked at the door. The dressing room was quiet inside, with only the faint hum of a stereo and the rumble of an air-conditioner, and Ikemen struggled to control his breathing, as his stomach rolled with a terrible bout of nausea. He gently pressed his hand to the handle. It chilled his hand and yet grounded him, as it prevented the tremor from growing more extreme, and yet he could not quite force himself to open the door. He already knew.

A few laughs echoed out from down the hallway, where Ramenman and Buffaloman shared some private anecdotes about the new generation, and the stadium was alive with raucous cheers, as people crowded around to see Kevin fight with Mars. Life around him carried on, as if nothing were amiss . . . tears pricked at his eyes. Ikemen pressed down the handle. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, before he forced a smile and threw open the door wide, and he finally opened his eyes, as he chirped out in a forced chipper tone:

“Mantaro, you missed training today. I’m worried.”

 _Silence_. Ikemen gazed about the room. A wrestling uniform was neatly folded on the dressing-table, while the carpet was spotless and free from mess, and not a single personal item lay littered about the room. It was almost as if no one had ever set foot through the door in some time, or – perhaps – had taken everything except the one thing they would no longer need: the uniform. Ikemen dropped his shoulders and dropped his head. A cold sweat broke over him, as his lip trembled and a painful lump formed in his throat. He could only whisper:

“Oh.”

* * *

Ikemen stretched out in the limousine. He signalled to the driver to do another lap of the city, while he peered intently outside the windows in hope of a familiar face . . . Kid caught on a date, Seiuchin in a _sashimi_ bar . . . there was no sign of Mantaro. The beating of his heart increased louder and louder, until the pounding was palpable and forced him to press the base of his hand firmly against his chest. He swallowed back the growing bile.

“Where are you, Mantaro?”

He jumped as his phone beeped with an alert. He scrambled with desperate hands, as fingers frantically pulled and tugged at his pockets, and – with jerky and shallow breaths – he pressed his thumb to the pad and unlocked the email application. The sender read: ‘Kinniku Mantaro’. It was a work-email, but it was an email nonetheless and a sign that he was alive . . . _he was alive_. Ikemen opened the email with tears, which read:

_‘Hey, sorry that I’ve not been in touch. I just wanted you to know that I’ve taken some time off from wrestling to focus on myself . . . if anyone asks, I’m back on Planet Kinniku! I’ll be a while, and my pops has gotten a doctor for me, so don’t worry about me, okay? I’ve told Meat where to find me, but I didn’t want to lose touch with my friends while I’m gone, so yeah, I figured we could email if that’s alright? Like, I don’t know, it’s easier to talk when you haven’t got to actually talk. Or does that sound stupid? Anyway, it’s me, Mantaro!’_

Ikemen wept. The smile on his face was wet with tears.

* * *

13:09: Ikemen: _‘You haven’t been responding to emails, Mantaro’._

13:09: Mantaro: _‘Sorry, dude, I’ve been swamped!’_

13:10: Ikemen: _‘Too swamped for instant message? Too swamped to text? Too swamped to call? Too write? Mantaro, I’m worried. You promised you’d stay in touch with me, but where are you and what are you doing? Are you still hurting yourself?’_

13:11: Mantaro: _‘I’m fine, don’t worry. I haven’t done anything yet.’_

13:11: Ikemen: _‘Yet? What is that meant to mean?’_

13:11: Mantaro: _‘It doesn’t mean anything, man! You’re reading too much into it.’_

13:12: Ikemen: _‘And what about the fact you’re not on Planet Kinniku? I know you didn’t go home, Mantaro. I contacted your father and mother. Where are you? Did you run away? I need to know where you so that we can come get you. Meat is scouring every inch of the city. We’ve tried your favourite restaurants, your friends’ homes, the stadium. Where are you?’_

13:12: Ikemen: _‘I’m not angry. I’m just scared. We want you back.’_

14:16: Ikemen: _‘If you don’t reply, I’m calling the police, Mantaro. Call me.’_

14:26: Ikemen: _‘Please, just call me.’_

00:17: Ikemen: _‘Mantaro, I love you. I can’t lose you. Please . . .’_

_Message read: 00:17._

* * *

_‘Mailer-Daemon: This email address does not exist -’_

Ikemen slammed shut the laptop. The fast beating of his heart drowned out all other sounds, as his mouth ran dry and his hand trembled over the case. He darted his eyes to the phone screen just beside him . . . _‘the number you have dialled cannot be recognised, please hang up and –’_ . . . Ikemen screwed shut his eyes until sparks of colour appeared. A cold sweat broke over his palms. He swayed on his chair, while his head grew light.

A knock came at his door, as someone shuffled outside. They held an armful of papers and folders, some nearly falling in the chaotic mess, and their cheeks were flushed, as if having ran from a long distance. They huffed for breath. It wasn’t the huffs or grunts of a familiar voice . . . one training, one socialising . . . it was almost a disappointment, as Ikemen tapped his fingers against the laptop and gnawed the inside of his cheek. He glanced to the clock. It was late and there were meetings to attend, contracts to sign, people to meet . . .

Ikemen quickly grabbed a notepad. He scrawled out a brief note: _‘Mantaro, please come see me at once’._ The assistant dropped the folders onto his desk, before obediently taking the note and promising to place it into Mantaro’s locker, and there followed an uncomfortable silence, as Ikemen was left alone with his thoughts and paperwork . . . no one to distract him, no one to help him . . . tears pricked at his dry eyes, as he let loose a shuddered sigh.

 

* * *

Ikemen paced against the entrance.

There was silence in the stadium. There was no movement.

Kid sat hunched at the edge of the ring, where he dialled constantly and took messages, and – with fluent English – his services were a lifeline when all resources were otherwise exhausted, as he contacted airlines and shelters and hospitals. Ramenman stood at a desk on the far side of the room, where he directed old and new generations alike, as a map sat before him split into square sections, and each small group would be sent to scout a new place.

It was difficult to control his hands. Ikemen clasped them across his chest, as the fingers would move of their own accord and pins-and-needles would pierce the flesh, and there something terrifying . . . uncanny . . . about his digits closing without his intent. The tremble to his lip made him feel weak. The tears in his eyes distorted his vision. It was all he could do to remain strong, as his muscles tensed until knots appeared and pain shot through his nerves, and he swayed . . . he swayed as his head grew light and his heart raced.

He barely heard the footsteps at first . . . _soft, slow, steady_. . . they came from the entrance, where the wrestlers would make a grand display of strength and finesse, and they echoed around the hallway that went on forever and ever. In the distance, a shadow appeared . . . small . . . the figure of Meat, with his hands clasped over a red cape. A shiny object rested on top, like a piece of jewellery and unique in designed. He was crying.

Ikemen fell to his knees.

A solid lump formed hard and heavy in his stomach. It churned inside him, bringing acid high in his chest and burning at his throat, and – as he retched – tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and fast, until they merged with saliva on his lips and turned bitter. A cold sweat broke over his skin, sticking his armour to chilled flesh. Every nerve was aflame. It was as if iced water had been doused over him, but he was unable to catch his breath . . .

He was choking . . . _choking_ . . . Kid was behind him, rubbing his back, while Ramenman kept his distance with his head low and tears threatening to spill. The world still span, even as Ikemen dropped onto all fours and stared angrily at the floor . . . _the stadium where Mantaro had wins and losses, tears of happiness and sorrow, a life well lived . . ._ Ikemen slammed his fist down against the tiles. A knuckle cracked. The smear of blood that lay on the floor was a stark reminder that he was alive . . . he was alive, but Mantaro was not . . .

“H-How?” Kid asked. “It ain’t true. It just ain’t true!”

Meat stopped a few feet before them. He knelt down before Ikemen with a few sniffs, until he wiped his eyes with one hand and offered him the cape with the other hand, and there – sat perfectly on top – was the locket that Mantaro wore as of late, with the inscription of the three lions etched onto the silver. Ikemen knelt just enough to take the fabric into trembling hands. He brought it to his face and breathed deep the scent of Mantaro, forcing a few laughs even as his lips mumbled _‘no, no, no’_ . . . a stabbing pain in his sternum.

“I should have intervened sooner,” whispered Ikemen.

“No – No one knew.” Meat dropped onto the floor. “We all knew something was wrong, but no one knew he would . . . he – he – he left a letter. It arrived this morning, just as they found him, and I guess . . .  I guess he timed it that way. He _wanted_ it that way. He didn’t want for us to know until it was too late, and he . . . he was gone. He’s _gone_!”

“Yer tellin’ me that mah best friend is _dead_?” Kid asked.

“I – I’ve been – I’ve been with the police all morning. I’ll go back to Planet Kinniku tomorrow, as I want to tell his majesty in person, but it’ll . . . it’ll destroy him. A few of his majesty’s friends have offered to go with me, so maybe it’ll help, but nothing is going to give back what they’ve lost. I can’t even . . . what if the police are wrong?

“They said the last trace of Mantaro was a few days ago. They – They caught sight of him on some security camera by a bar, talking to Kevin, and then that’s where the trail runs cold, and . . . and then . . . and then a worker called in Mantaro’s body this morning, found him in the north section of _Shinjuku Gyo-en_. They – They found him . . . _hanging_. Why would he – he . . . why would he _do_ something like this? I don’t understand!”

Meat broke. The tears stained his bloodshot eyes, as he fisted his hands against them, and – remembering well his young age – something broke in Ikemen in turn . . . _no child should have to go through something so traumatic_. . . Ramenman joined them, as he knelt to help Meat stand hugged him close for some small comfort. Kid screamed. It was loud and primal, and it was followed by groans and sobs as he attacked a training dummy in the ring, until its head snapped clean off its frame. Ikemen stayed quiet as Meat sobbed:

“The letter said Mantaro wanted you to have his locket.”

Ramenman gently led Meat away, as Kid finally fell onto the mat and wept. The cape was soft in Ikemen’s hands, worn during the most pivotal of battles, and it still held the scent of Mantaro, with the aromas of the places he so often visited . . . _expensive cologne, beef bowls, sweat, freshly mown grass, iron from blood . . ._ it told the story of his life. The locket lay on the ground, having fallen from the fabric . . . _‘I put all my hopes and dreams in there’ . . ._ Ikemen clenched it in his hands. The chain ran over his knuckles.

He had no idea how long he sat there. There were only panicked voices from Jacqueline and Gazelleman . . . hands on his shoulders, guided to his office, water pressed into his hands . . . a swell of panic as he thought to the locket . . . _‘it’s here, look’_. . . sleep came easy, as he fell back against the cushions of the leather chair. The nightmares came easier. In each dream Mantaro laughed and smiled, before he jumped . . . _he always jumped_ . . .

* * *

The fire crackled in the lounge. It sent flickers of light about the walls, casting long shadows and strange ever-changing shapes, and Ikemen – as he curled up beneath the blanket – watched as the orange and red and yellow competed in a fierce battle. The cape was almost black in the darkness of the evening, even as it lay draped over Jacqueline with streaks of mascara down her tear-strained cheeks. The locket hung from Ikemen’s neck.

It was heavy like a noose, with a cold pressure against his chest. He gently lifted it in both hands, while his fingertips traced over the patterns and trembled at the clasp . . . _‘all my hopes and dreams’_. . . Ikemen’s heart raced. The tears clouded his vision once more, as he struggled to force open the clasp. He sobbed silently. The locket finally clicked open.

The inside was finally revealed.  

There was nothing.


End file.
